Yet she did not. Well, all right, he looked vaguely familiar but that could be what he was wearing. Eighty per cent of the men who came in here wore conservative city suits. His voice was a different matter. That felt even more so familiar, somehow. Was he a movie actor of some kind? But what would a movie actor be doing scaring Traynor’s tigerish management into panic?
She leafed through her papers again and again but his name wasn’t on the list of visitors. She had never met him before, that was why Sam asked her along, so there would be a stranger that the hostile forces had to be nice to. And now he was yelling at her, the one person who was supposed to bring some calm to the proceedings. It wasn’t fair.
‘I’ve apologised for being late,’ she pointed out crisply. ‘You’re not the only client, you know.’
The purple silk shirt shut his eyes in anguish.
Emilio was taken aback.
Sam Smith leaped into the breach. ‘But this raises an important point. We’ve done a bit of work on it but, frankly, most of the adverse exposure hit us unawares. If you turn to sheet number five, you’ll see our analysis….’
Even Emilio Diz turned to sheet number five eventually, though he took longer about it than anyone else. He seemed reluctant to take his eyes off Abby. Abby herself, speed-reading a completely new client history, seemed unaware of that brooding regard.
She worked hard at seeming unaware. She would have been pleased if she had known how totally she succeeded. Oh, Lord, thought Sam looking at Emilio Diz. She was a student of human nature and she foresaw fireworks.
She was wrong.
Certainly the discussion became heated. But Emilio, sitting back, took no part in it. He was watching the interplay between Traynor’s and the PR agency’s team, with only the occasional flicker in the direction of the bent head of Lady Abigail. So far, it was pretty much as he could have forecast; each side trying to blame the other: neither side looking at the real issues. He sighed and was about to take charge again when a mobile telephone began to ring.
Emilio frowned mightily. All the Traynor team checked their phones guiltily. But no, they were all switched off as he had commanded. The ringing continued.
‘Abby,’ hissed the account executive.
Emilio went so still he might have been turned to stone.
She jumped and came out of the folder.
‘Is it yours?’
She rummaged in the loose pocket of her jacket and brought out a phone as tiny as a powder compact. She was aware of Emilio watching glacially as she opened it and tapped acceptance. She put it to her ear.
‘No,’ moaned the executive.
But Abby was listening with total concentration, her eyebrows knit.
She turned away from the table. ‘I can’t talk now,’ she said in a low voice.
In vain. Everyone in the room was listening.
Emilio watched her. He saw her mobile mouth thin to a fierce line.
‘No,’ she said, clipped and cold to freezing point.
Who was it? thought Emilio, intrigued in spite of himself. An angry lover? He could only see her profile but she looked shocked. More than shocked, he realised suddenly. Hurt. Yes, that was it. She looked so hurt that she was not capable of disguising it, even in this room crowded with strangers.
Emilio found himself thinking: whoever he is, the man on the phone is making more impact on her than I have.
But what about the impact I made nine years ago? Is this the girl who kissed me with such innocent passion in the Montijo’s garden? The one I managed to resist? And have never ceased regretting resisting!
It was unlikely of course. It would be an amazing coincidence. After all, he had only talked to her once, all those years ago, and she had only just been struggling out of adolescence. Would he trust himself to recognise her again? All he knew about her was that she was English and called Abby.
He watched the girl’s jaw clench suddenly, as if she had expected suffering but not this much. Surely only someone she was passionate about could make her look like that? The idea of Lady Abigail passionate was something else that intrigued him.
Maybe she was his Abby after all.
‘I apologise, gentlemen,’ said the account executive. ‘Abby, please go outside if you must take the call…’
Abby nodded. She said into the phone, ‘Yes, I understand. I’ve got to go.’
Whatever the caller said made her whiten, suddenly and alarmingly. Well, no one else seemed alarmed, Emilio realised. He was surprised. To him it looked as if all the blood had drained out of her, in spite of the ski slope tan. He did not like her but if he had been closer, he might have been tempted to put an arm round her to steady her.
Abby’s jaw was rigid. ‘Don’t worry. I will.’ She shut the phone with a snap and pressed the off switch. ‘Sorry,’ she said turning back the table.
That last remark sounded more like a threat than a promise, thought Emilio. He was more and more intrigued. Maybe the lover was on his way out? He found himself speculating idly on what sort of man Lady Abigail would take as a lover. Speculating so profoundly, that he missed several of the next exchanges. Missed everything, in fact, until Abby herself joined the discussion.
It cost her a lot to transfer her attention back to the meeting. She was, frankly, in a cold panic. Suddenly these bad-tempered clients did not seem to matter much in comparison, not just at the moment, anyway.
The phone call had been from Justine. Abby was wrong in thinking that Justine would give her time to find somewhere else to live. In her most vicious mood, she had called to deliver a deadline. An unmeetable deadline, as Abby well knew. She set her teeth and refused to think about it.
Concentrate, she told herself. Concentrate!
She absorbed the last of the folder’s contents furiously. Then cast discretion to the winds and spoke her mind. ‘I don’t see how you can expect people to like you if you keep tearing down their favourite buildings,’ she said clearly.
There was an audible gasp and everyone looked at Emilio. His eyes narrowed but he said nothing.
After a moment’s hesitation, Traynor’s managing director decided to be amused. ‘That’s supposed to be your job, isn’t it?’
Abby, however, was frowning over the material in front of her.
‘Public relations is supposed to be about getting people to recognise clients’ names and associate them with positive values,’ she recited. She had been taught it only a few months ago and it was fresh in her mind. ‘But how can anyone get Traynor associated with positive values when you’re deliberately telling people it doesn’t matter what they think, you’re going to do exactly what you want anyway?’
The managing director stopped being amused. ‘Progress—’ he began.
‘Maybe it is progress,’ Abby allowed. ‘Did you show anyone how your developments were going to make their lives better? Did you even think about it? Because if you did, you sure as hell never told us.’
Sam could not believe it. No one could believe it. Cheerful, peace-making Abby on the warpath?
Abby could hardly believe it herself. But the silence of the man at the head of the table spurred her on. If he was going to sit there smouldering at her, she was jolly well going to give him reason to smoulder.
She tossed her head. There was no familiar soft fall of hair against her cheek. The turquoise spikes made her feel naked. Not just the spiky hair, either. There was something about that man’s eyes that made her feel as if she had forgotten to put on her clothes this morning.
She unfocused her eyes so she did not have to watch him smouldering. Or see her underlying nakedness reflected back at her.
She said hardily, ‘People aren’t stupid, you know. And PR doesn’t do brain-washing. You want us to persuade people your new buildings are a good idea? Fine. Give us some evidence.’
The silent man’s eyes had narrowed to slits of light. Steely light. Abby glanced at him quickly and looked away at once. She concentrated on the foaming managing direc
tor.
‘Isn’t that supposed to be your job?’ she challenged him.
Sam could have groaned aloud. Where was the friendly Abby who took the heat out of every argument?
Emilio Diz closed his folder.
Oh, Lord, thought Abby, I’ve really done it now. He looks as if he wants to kill someone. Probably me. What got into to me?
But she knew what had got into her. It was being smouldered at. She didn’t like it. So she had probably thrown away her embryo career because he rubbed her up the wrong way.
Brilliant, Abby, she told herself. Kiss the home and the career goodbye in a single day. She held her breath, waiting for the blow.
But, to her astonishment, the hateful man said, ‘You have a point.’ It sounded as if it strangled him to admit it. But at least he was not smouldering at her anymore.
Abby blinked. Everyone else at the table looked astounded. Sam sent up a silent prayer of thanks.
‘I will consider further.’ His Spanish Rs rolled horribly. ‘I don’t think we can do any more today. Let us close this meeting.’
The executive had expected to lose the Traynor account. He did not quite know what to do with this reprieve. Floundering, he said, ‘Of course. Whatever you say. Er—’ He pulled himself together. ‘Why don’t I give you a cup of tea in my office? Or a drink. Glass of wine, gentlemen. Then I’ll walk you round. See the sort of operation we have here. Meet the staff…’
He fully expected Traynor’s alarming new owner to crunch him. Instead Emilio Diz seemed to debate inwardly. It took less than ten seconds before he shrugged and accepted.
‘Great,’ said the account executive hollowly. ‘This way.’
The Traynor’s brigade trooped out behind their new general, accompanied by everyone but the women.
Left behind, Sam sagged.
‘What happened?’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to bite him in the fleshy part of the leg.’
Abby was conscience stricken. ‘I’m sorry. Only he just sat there sneering at us all, saying nothing…’
‘Saying nothing?’ Sam echoed. A look of comprehension crossed her face. ‘I was talking about the managing director,’ she said dryly. ‘Not the seriously sexy article that has just taken over that bunch of cowboys.’
‘Sexy?’ echoed Abby. ‘That human volcano?’ She shuddered. ‘Semi-human,’ she corrected herself conscientiously.
‘Well, you weren’t looking at anyone else,’ Sam pointed out.
‘No but—’ Abby caught herself. ‘Yes, I was. I was reading the brief.’
‘And nor was I,’ Sam went on frankly, ignoring her protest. ‘He’s gorgeous.’
‘He’s nasty.’
‘Well, yes, that, too. Most tycoons are.’
‘Then they should learn some self-control,’ said Abby coldly. She stood up. ‘Can I go back to my own clients now?’
Sam stood up, too. ‘I don’t know what you’re so mad about. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
Abby looked angry. ‘Because he didn’t like me,’ she said shrewdly. ‘Me coming in late like that really made him mad. I suppose he expects people to be lined up and waiting when he arrives.’
‘Well, he is paying for our time,’ said Sam fairly.
‘But I was doing him a favour. Traynors aren’t my client, thank God.’
‘He wasn’t to know that.’
Abby shrugged. She didn’t want to find anything to say in the smouldering volcano’s defence. Her stepmother’s call had knocked the bottom out of the world and she was feeling savage. It was a relief to find someone who deserved her fury.
She glanced at her watch. After six o’clock. She had been at work since seven-thirty. She could perfectly well have gone home.
Home? Abby gave a hollow laugh. And found it broke.
She dived for the ladies’ room.
What a contrast with their cheerful chatter this morning, she thought. She let the tears fall for a while. Then she heard someone in the corridor outside and wiped her eyes hurriedly. Her unaccustomed make-up smudged horribly. She tried repairs but her hand kept slipping.
In the end, Abby gave up and washed it all off. Then she went back to her desk and banged through the pending box and the day’s e-mail with Olympic energy. By the time she finished it was dark outside, the open-plan office was empty except for her. There were lights in a couple of the management offices but Abby ignored them. Normally she would have put her head round the door to say goodnight, see if they wanted to share a coffee or a drink before they went home. But tonight she was too sore. And, frankly, in too much of a mess.
She did not know what to do. Of course she did not really believe that Justine would have changed the locks on the door to her flat. But pride made her determined not to go back to the house tonight if she could help it. So she had to find somewhere to stay. But where?
None of her brothers was in London. She could go to a friend, maybe Molly di Perretti. But Molly had gone home an hour ago. If Abby turned up on her doorstep unannounced, she would have to explain that her stepmother had thrown her out.
If she had been at home in Yorkshire, there would have been dozens of friends she could go to. But—in London? Abby did not yet know anyone well enough to trust them with a secret like that. And she knew her media by now. She knew it was too good a story for the gossip columnists to resist if they got wind of it.
She went out into the agency’s courtyard car park. There were only a couple of cars left, discreetly dark and shining in the rain. Abby felt a flicker of envy. It was going to be a miserable walk to the tube, splashing through puddles and trying to keep the rain from soaking through her smart jacket. She opened her umbrella with savage jerks.
If the scandal only affected Justine, the columnists would be welcome to print whatever they damned well liked, Abby thought vengefully. But it did not. It affected her father, as well.
She could not bear it if he found out from the papers that open war had broken out between his wife and his daughter. Once she had told him, then Justine could take her chances. But until he returned from his current trip somewhere in upcountry Kazakhstan, Abby would do everything she could to keep the breach out of the papers.
Which meant that a hotel was not a good idea, either. She would have to pay with her credit card. The desk clerk would see her name. Desk clerks were a great source for news agencies. The last six months had taught Abby that much.
So she was stuck. Either she risked telling the world about her stepmother’s viciousness. Or she went home and tried to talk herself back into a house where she did not want to spend another minute!
She did not realise that tears of temper and frustration were coursing down her cheeks until a voice said, ‘Lady Abigail?’
She turned. It was the man who had smouldered at her. The big cheese who had just taken over Traynor. The smooth operator with the sinister accent. The man she had gone head-to-head with for the first time in her life.
Abby dashed the back of her gloved hand across her cheeks and hoped that he would think their dampness was due to the rain. Her chin tilted.
‘What?’ she said pugnaciously.
If she had batted wet eyelashes at him, Emilio would have nodded and gone his way. If she had smiled, he would have said goodnight and passed on. But he had spent a long, long hour with one eye on purple silk shirt’s door waiting for her to come through it. And that glare was a challenge.
He hesitated. An irresistible challenge?
‘Why didn’t you join us?’ he asked.
Abby groped for a handkerchief and failed to find one.
‘Not needed,’ she said curtly. She could not help herself. She sniffed, turning away impatiently.
For some reason, it touched Emilio. There was something oddly gallant about her belligerence. She had obviously been crying. But she was still fighting him with every breath she took.
Yes, the challenge was irresistible.
He said with practised charm, ‘You’re getting ve
ry wet. Can I offer you a lift somewhere, perhaps?’
As soon as he said it he was annoyed with himself. He had no time to go accepting challenges from turquoise-haired sirens. He had too much to do.
He was even more annoyed when he saw the undisguised alarm that flashed into her eyes. Did the wretched girl think he was making a pass at her, for God’s sake? In a car park in the middle of an English downpour?
‘A lift,’ he repeated with emphasis. ‘I was offering to take you home, no more.’
‘Home,’ she said in a strange voice.
Her psychedelic hair was dulled in the erratic light of the courtyard. But he had not forgotten that aggressive colour, to say nothing of the style. Maybe she went straight from her desk to the dance floor.
‘Home,’ he repeated grimly. ‘Unless nightclubs open at,’ he consulted his watch, ‘eight o’clock in this strange country.’ He was stiff with anger.
She gave a little laugh that broke in the middle.
‘As of four-twenty this afternoon, I haven’t got a home,’ she told him in a light, hard voice.
Emilio did not know why, but he knew that it was the negligent tone that said it was true. He also knew that she was standing in the rain talking to him because she did not have the faintest idea what to do next. He took charge of the umbrella and drew her hand into the crook of his arm.
To his own astonishment he heard himself say, ‘Then you’d better sit in the car and get dry while you think where you would like me to take you.’
Abby gaped. She had not expected the smouldering man to show kindness to anyone, least of all her. She was deeply suspicious. At the same time, she was half embarrassed, half desperate to comply. At least it would stop her thinking for a moment.
She compromised. ‘Not your problem. Why should you help me?’
She resisted his urging to move towards one of the dark, warm cars. But she did not take her hand away from his arm.
‘Problem solving is my speciality,’ he told her, amused. ‘That is how I made my millions.’
More Than A Millionaire (Contemporary Romance) Page 6
